The Wolf and the Dragon upon the Shivering Sea
by DanDanger1
Summary: My (hopefully more interesting) re-imagining of the boat scene in 7x06 which I felt was really lacklustre and kind of a boring cop-out way to deal with the issues facing everyone's favourite Royal couple. Hopefully my version is a bit more interesting, a bit more subtle, and a bit more intriguing. Warning, pretty fluffy. In this universe Jon lurrrrves Dany and she luuuurves him


**AN: Hi Everyone! Its been a while since I published anything here, and my first GoT story (though I have lots of ideas for some other stories of various lengths in the future). If you're reading my my other multi-chapter fics, they are still being written, fear not. This is just a short little one-shot that popped into my head because I hated the ending scene on the boat in 7x06. So this will basically be my re-imagining the scene to be more realistic and true to the characterisation - including the fact they are now basically confirmed to be in love, bla bla bla - of the characters involved than the cop-out that was presented to us.**

 **A few points: This is my first GoT fic, and though I am a huge fan of both the books and the tv show I am still very unsure about how to write these characters. Which is why this story is pretty much only seen through Dany's POV, and even that I am not super happy with/convinced about, because I am still trying to find my "voice" for her and I'm worried that her internal monologue is too out of character to be believable. That said, please review, but maybe be a bit gentle? Or at least don't rip me to shreds if you don;t like the way I've written her? As I work more with GoT characters, I'm sure I'll find her "voice" as well as those of other characters that will allow me to eventually do multiple POVs in GoT stories, but I'm just not htere yet.**

 **This is gonna be a pretty fluffy Jonaerys one-shot. In this universe Dany LUUUUURVES Jon and visa versa. If you don't like jonaerys, fine, I totally get it (for a while I was against it too, but all things considered their "incest" barely counts, especially when compared to the Lannister twincest, or some of the other Jon pairings that have sprouded up. And they ARE Targaryens, after all, so. meh. I've come around to it. If you haven't, that's cool, just don't hate on it for that).**

 **As far as canon goes, I tried to encorporate and rectify both with each other as best I can, but essentially think of this as tv canon, with some of the ages/time frames/etc adjusted**

 **Anyway, if you're unfamiliar with my work...please read, enjoy, and review, and any spelling/grammar/etc mistakes are because English is not my first language (but I try hard to write well in it). As always, pretty standard disclaimers across the board. A man owns nothing, and makes/intends to make no profit.**

He was still unconscious when they carried him aboard the galley that was to take them to Dragonstone from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. She had sent her two remaining boys - how painful and raw that thought still was, it was like her heart ripped out and fell into that lake with her poor baby every time she thought of it - on ahead; Rhaegal would fly ahead and Drogon would escort the small fleet that her galley had become the flagship of, as it made its way first to Dragonstone to rest and resupply, then quickly back to sea to make for King's Landing, to ensure any pirates or any of the Lannister forces stupid enough to attempt to engage them would not live to regret it.

And despite it all, the loss of Viserion, as heart-wrenching as it was - no mother should have to bury her child, nevermind twice - this wasn't the only event of their little misadventure north of the wall to have torn her heart to pieces. It was that damn Jon Snow and his ineffable ability to continually surprise her, frustrate her, tear at her heartstrings, and yes - even if a few mere weeks ago she would have been loathe to admit it, if she even were able to - even please her, in a strange, shockingly comfortable and familiar way that not even her children could. In a way that she had never felt about any other man in her life, not those who had given her strength, and shelter, and protection some might even argue to be fatherly, like Ilyrio or Ser Jorrah; not her closest and most trusted advisors Lord Tyrion or Greyworm; none of her past lovers, not even Drogo her beloved sun and stars, had never made her feel quite this way. It was familiar, and complex, and welcoming and ethereal and exciting and many other things besides that she doesn't have the words in the many languages she speaks to describe particularly what they are. And he has to make it all the worse to run off half-cocked in this stupid plan of his and nearly get himself killed which, if the words of Ser Davos and Tormund Giantsbane are anything to go by, seems to be a relatively common occurance for the King in the North.

And there it was, the giant, gaping, maw of a problem in her well-stitched plans - let alone her feelings. He was the _King in the North_. A title which, by rights, didn't exist, and hadn't for thousands of years. Not since the Stark ancestor of this bastard king bent the knee to her ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, after which time the title of King in the North ceased to exist. A fact that both she and he knew full well. She was Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the Breaker of Chains, the Unburnt, the Mother of Dragons, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. _Seven_ Kingdoms, of which included the northern one. By rights, by stubbornly clinging onto that stupid title of his, he was in open rebellion against her. A usurper. A traitor. She should have him killed - beheaded, burnt, drowned whatever, it shouldn't matter; she should fly her dragons to Winterfell and hold his people hostage like her ancestor did to his, and force him to bend the knee. She should not allow such niceties to continue. He should, by rights, bend the knee to her, his rightful Queen.

She knew all this, in her head. It had rolled over and over in her mind more times than she would be willing to admit. She knew what Viserys would have done; what her father would have done; what Aegon the conquered _had done_. And yet...she couldn't bring herself to do it. In the time he had spent at Dragonstone over the past two months or so - first as her virtual prisoner, albeit not in name, then in order to mine the dragonglass with her permission, and finally as an occasional, if reluctant, advisor - she had gotten to know Jon Snow, the man. At first, it was true, it was in order to size up a rival delivered to her hands as if by the gods' own decree; this much was true and she could hardly deny that her initial interest in understanding the bastard king was in order to best him and get what she wanted from him. But, over time, that changed. From her conversations about him with Lord Tyrion who had nothing but good things to say about him - which was high praise indeed - and Lord Varys, to conversations her attendants (Missandei in particular) - and even on occasion she, herself - had with his Hand, Ser Davos, her curiousity had been piqued and she was intrigued. She began to study him more closely, more inently. She began to engage him directly in conversation more, and not simply related those to the business at hand; she invited him to dine with her and to escort her on walks around the grounds of Dragonstone. Whilst he accepted many of her offers and was certainly a polite and amicable - as far as northerners go, at least - guest, she learned more about him when he didn't know he was being observed. He would refuse her invitations as often as he could and still be polite. This annoyed her, at first, until she learned that the reason for this was so that he could aid in the mining of dragonglass. Both in a supervisory capacity, but also taking his turn in the mine with his men, hammering away at the mountain of the black rock which, he claimed, would help save Westeros from the Others. She learned many things from her clandestine observations. She learned that Jon Snow was a pleasant man, well-liked and well-respected by those he led. She learned that, despite the impassive, unreadable face of the dour northerner he had presented to her in their earlier meetings, he was a fun-spirited man with a sense of humour, sense of duty, and work ethic in equal measure. He was a true leader, in that he never asked his men to do anything he wasn't willing to do himself, whether that was digging latrines, mining dragonglass, or more to the point, sacrifice themselves in battle. Which, she mused, seemed to explain why he appeared to so willingly do what he had done in the battle with the Others north of the wall.

But understanding the man and his actions didn't make it hurt or frighten her any less. Gods, he seemed so weak when he was carried on board; Tormund Giantsbane carrying one end, and Ser Davos the other, they carefully carried him down below decks to the cabin she had prepared for him, directly next to hers and as richly appointed - befitting his station - as was possible in such a run-down vessel on such short notice. It would have to do. What struck her most, however, was how weak he looked. During the entire time she had known Jon Snow, she had known him to be many things: frustrating, bullheaded, stubborn, insolent, dour, unreadable, confusing, kind, good natured, devoted, and driven were amongst those qualities she had known him to be, but weak was never one of them. Sure, he was not as physically large and overtly muscled as others of his attendants and hangers-on, notably the younger Clegane or Tormund, but he exuded a confident, agile, strength - both physical and mental - from every fibre of his being it it was one of the things that attracted her to him. That, and his stone-grey eyes and his raven hair, stark against his pale skin. He was a beautiful man, but what attracted her to him more was his presence, his strength.

Despite the warm, pale light of the northern sun streaming in the windows of the cabin as she sat vigil by his bed, he still looked weak. Oh so weak, oh so different than the strong, confident bastard king she had fallen in love with. Yes, it was love she was feeling for him. She knew that much was true. She may have still been young, only seeing twenty-two name days, but she had already buried one husband, and two children, and had several lust-filled escapades from pretty men from across her kingdom. None had made her feel the way the King in the North did. Seven hells, she wished she hadn't fallen in love with him. She was his Queen! She was his rightful leige lord, and he was in open rebellion! She should be forcing him to bend the knee and having nothing more to do with him, but despite her age she knew well enough what her heart was feeling, and what it would, and would not, allow her to do.

If being in love with him wasn't bad enough, she thought, was the fact that he still lay there, in his bed, stripped naked and wrapped in furs, unconscious. He was breathing softly, she could tell by the soft rise and fall of his chest, but he was still unconscious. So weak, and his normally pale skin had yet to have much of any of its regular colour return to it, despite the full day and a half of southward sailing. It was bad enough, he fretted, to have had to bury Drogo, the first man she had ever loved; and then her beautiful Rhaego, and now, her heart still breaking over it, Viserion, her beautiful boy. But at least she had had time with each of them, even if they had all been far too brief. The Seven must be inordinately cruel, she thought, if after everything else she had been through in her short life, that she would have to send the bastard King in the North's body back to Winterfell to be buried as well, without ever having her chance to be with him, now that she has finally come to terms with it, and what she wanted, for herself. It was all too much. She wasn't sure if she would survive it: loosing her parents and her brothers and her throne, and then losing Drogo and Rhaego and now Viserion and now, potentially, Jon as well?

In attempt to clear those thoughts away, she busied herself with rearranging his furs and blankets and setting things in order as best she could. It did not go unnoticed to her the several small, knife-sized scars which graced his naked chest, red and angry and crooked, over his heart, spleen and elsehwere on his abdomen. It would appear that Ser Davos' words had not been mere fanciful exaggeration on behalf of a devoted servant, as the King in the North had tried to convince her of previously. That is certainly a curious revelation, she thought to herself. One which had great implications which she would, somehow, get to the bottom of.

As if on cue, Jon Snow chose that prescise moment for some of the colour to return to his cheeks and chest, and for his eyes to slowly flutter open, amongst groans of pain. His eyes open and shut repeatedly, blinking at the light streaming in the cabin windows, trying desperately to come into focus. Eventually, his eyes seems to settle and focus on her, sitting in her chair just to the side of his bed, her lips drawn into a tight line of concern. Stoic. Hopeful. She hopes that she is conveying only the right, good, emotions as he slowly comes to.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice cracking and heavy with emotion, "I'm so sorry"

The first words out of his mouth are concern for her. Jon Snow is certainly a rarity: laying in his bed, weak and barely escaped death himself, yet his first thoughts and words are of concern for her and how she must be feeling, remembering - as he must, given the particular way he learned - that to her, Viserion was no mere creature or beast, but as much her trueborn son as Rhaego had been. And now they are both gone. She fights back the tears that threaten to fall, as his reminder rips her heart out of her chest, yet again, with the reminder of her loss. She curls the corners of her mouth into a tight, curt, smile, despite the pain she is feeling and which she is almost certain is clearly visible on her face.

"A mother should never have to bury her children," she replies.

"No, no they should not," he agrees, shaking his head in the correct manner as best he can despite his pain and weakness.

She took his hand quietly in hers and they sat in silence for a moment, simply taking each other in. She smiled softly and rubbed her thumb along the back of his hand, as they sat, quietly contemplating each other and listening to the creaky vessel lazily pitching in the waves and it sailed south. Neither one said anything, neither one daring to break the pleasant silence, both studying the other intently, whilst basking in the pleasant company.

"I wish I could take it back," he said, eventually breaking the pleasant silence. His voice was earnest and his eyes were shining brightly, despite his weakness. She knew there was no deception in his words or his heart. He continued, "I wish we'd never gone"

 _Well, that makes two of us_ , she thought to herself. _I told you from the very start this was a stupid idea, but no one seemed to want to listen to me, the Queen, in my own small council! What is it with you, Jon Snow, and your infectious enthusiasm for stupidity?_

She shook her head slightly, and averted her eyes, trying desperately not to smile too broadly at him. She was, after all, still hurting deeply, and no matter what he did or said, nothing could change that. But the fact he was so earnest and sincere in his apology chased away any lingering questions or doubts she might have had left about the course of action she had chosen.

 _I really hope marching off stupidly to a brave and noble death isn't your general attitude on ruling, Jon Snow. Otherwise, after we marry I might have to set my Hand to mind my husband to ensure he doesn't do anything stupid_ , she thought to herself, before speaking.

"I'm not. If I hadn't gone, I wouldn't have seen. You have to see to know," she said, matter-of-factly. It was indeed true. If her sweet boy had to sacrifice himself for her to see what was really out there, what was really coming...to convince her what the right path forward was, it was one she had to accept.

"Now I know," she said bluntly. Dumbly.

She took a deep breathe, steeling her features as best she could for what she was about to say. For what she said next - and how he reacted to her words - would be of great importance, both for the people and realm of Westeros, as well as for her, personally.

"You're never going to bend the knee, are you Jon Snow?"

His eyes widened, and recoiled - physically - practically dropping her hand from his as if it had been burned; though of course it had not. Perhaps she should have been more delicate about this point, particularly given his condition at the moment, but the die had been cast. You cannot unspill milk.

"After all that, that is what crosses your mind?" he asks. Not harshly, but not kindly, either.

Daenerys sighs. She doesn't blame him for his reaction, but she needs to know, and she needs to ease into the conversation she wants to have with him some way, and this was as good a way as any.

"Please, Jon," she asks, kindly. "Please answer the question"

"Your Grace, I..."

"Wait," Dany says quickly, placing her free hand - as her other hand had retaken Jon's - over his mouth. Continuing, she said, "I want you to give me your honest answer. I promise you that whatever your answer, there will be no retribution. Just please answer me honestly"

"Honestly?" Jon asked once more, for clarity. Dany nodded her head, seeming at the same time restrained and enthusiastic, a feat which should not be possible.

"Honesty, Your Grace...no, I will not," he said, shoulders slumping in sadness. He fully expected the towering rage he had grown to expect from her when he showed his resistance to her rule - and its potential consequences - but she had asked him to be honest, and he was the son of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. He was nothing, if not honest.

"I will not bend the knee to you, Daenerys of the House Targaryen," he continued. "Not because I do not believe you have no claim, nor because I think you will follow in your father's footsteps, or that my people will be particularly oppressed if you were to rule them," he added, by way of explanation. "But my people chose me to lead them. Me, a northerner. A child of Eddard Stark raised at Winterfell, to lead them."

"The North will never follow me if I bend the knee to you. The entire point of them declaring me King in the North, like my brother Robb before me, was so that Northern affairs could be governed by Northerners for the benefit of Northmen. They'd never respect me again, let alone follow me, if I bent the knee to you. I am sorry, Your Grace. I have no quarrel with you; my fight is with _them_ ," he said, honestly. Passionately.

"If it were up to me, we'd join forces tomorrow, let Cersei play Queen of the ashes, and defend Westeros against the White Walkers together. But I cannot bend hte knee to you, or else my own men will refuse to follow me. If there was any other way, I would - you know what's out there, you've seen what we're up against...if there was any way at all that didn't require me losing the faith and loyalty of my own men, I would do it. But I cannot bend the knee"

"The North would _never_ accept a Targaryen Queen, you say?" Daenerys asked for clarification, almost playfully this time. She had her answer now, and she had her solution. Her barely-there smile threatened to stretch out across her entire face as she continued to press,

"Not even as your Queen?"

"No, I just said..." Jon began, before Daenerys cut him off again.

"No, Jon. Not as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms...as _your_ Queen"

He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head at her, almost mimicking his wolf, quizzically as he thought on her statement until a a few moments later realisation spread across his face.

 _She should probably be thanking Lord Tyrion_ , she thought to herself. _Without his questions about succession before she set out - which, admittedly, angered her greatly - she would not have been in the right frame of mind to have been thinking of such things in the first place. Likewise, had she not surrounded herself for the past many months with the clever Imp that had become her Hand and most trusted advisor, she would not have learned to think as deviously as she did, without his influence. He won't bend the knee? Fine. Husbands don't need to bend the knee to their wives, and unions of crowns unite countries and crowns, without destroying the independence of those countries. It was an elegant solution, indeed, if she did say so herself._

"The dragons are my children. They're the only children I will ever have, do you understand?" she said, firmly and emotionally.

She was giving him an out. They would never have children. They would not build a dynasty on natural-born heirs. Their love might be strong, but was it strong enough to withstand this? She would never forgive herself if she didn't give him an honourable way to bow out now.

He simply nodded, and smiled his half-cocked smile that she had grown to discover could melt her heart better than most anything else in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond.

She smiled brightly and happily, her purple Targaryen eyes sparkling and radiating with happiness for a moment. She brought his hand up to her lips and kissed them softly.

The moment gone, her eyes then flashed with fury and like violet ice, as she said in a voice that would brook no argument - not that she expected to get one from her now-betrothed,

"We are going to destroy the Night King and his army. And we'll do it together. And when we're done, we'll march our armies south and take our vengeance on Cersei Lannister for what she did to our families. You have my word, Jon"

The passion in her voice almost overcame her, she nearly surprised even herself just how fully she meant every word.

"And you will have my sword, until my dying day, _My Queen_ ," Jon replied

Daenerys revelled in the affection behind the words, as well as the words themselves.

"And you mine, _My King_ ," she replied, her voice also thick with emotion.

She stood to take her leave; they should be arriving in Dragonstone by evening, and she had spent the entire journey siting a vigil over Jon. She had other responsibilities she should attend to, in addition to her husband-to-be needing his rest. But before she turned to leave, she planted a soft kiss on his lips. When she pulled away - whether it was seconds, minutes, or years passed, she wasn't entirely sure but she _was_ entirely sure she didn't care - she was almost deliriously happy, her smile so wide it threatened to split her face in two. She turned on her heel to leave immediately, fearing that if she tarried much longer, that she would foresake her other duties to spend the rest of the journey in bed with Jon Snow, bastard King in the North.


End file.
